


The Bathroom Floor

by Red Cherry-Cat (WormParty00)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 05:31:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12834336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WormParty00/pseuds/Red%20Cherry-Cat
Summary: Simmons stumbles into a scene he wasn't prepared for.A personal headcanon of mine is that Grif struggles with self-harm, so yeah. It's grimmons if you squint.





	The Bathroom Floor

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this and some other fics on my computer for actual years, so I figured I'd finally share some !   
> I know this is a pretty heavy one to start off, sorry ! I have some equally heavy headcanons for some other characters, so lmk if you'd be interested in hearing those !   
> Hope you enjoy c:

“Grif, what the hell are you doing? You’ve been in there for an hour!” Grif rolled his eyes at Simmons’s complaint, replying, “Oh fucking well, Simmons. Just go piss somewhere else.”   
As he stood outside the bathroom door, he could hear Grif moving around, and at one point he thought he heard a tiny metallic “clink”. Considering Simmons was the one with metal parts, this was a bit puzzling. Simmons put his hand on the doorknob, asking “Seriously, Grif, what are you doing?” Grif replied quickly with a sharp, “Nothing. It’s fine.”   
Simmons tried the doorknob, and to both his and Grif’s surprise, it was unlocked. He pushed it open a bit, leaning into the bathroom from behind the door.   
“Shit,” Grif hissed, scrambling for a rag or anything to cover his arms. Simmons froze, “Grif?”   
Grif couldn’t meet his eyes. “Oh my god,” Simmons breathed out, almost shaking his head in denial of what was happening in front of him. Grif looked around the room, searching for anywhere but Simmons’s face to look, and tried an excuse with a sigh, “Look, it’s not…I don’t…Fuck, I don’t know.” Simmons immediately took the razor blade out of the sink and put it on a shelf out of reach. “Let me see,” he requested in a stern voice that sounded more like a demand. Grif clenched his fist and moved away. Simmons finally caught his gaze, “Grif. Let me see. Please.” Grif looked him over, jaw tight and eyes unsteady. Despite the sharp tone of his voice, there was a gentleness in Simmons's eyes that froze Grif to his core.   
Simmons reached forward just slightly, and Grif pulled the cloth from his forearm, revealing several cuts, one deep enough to almost be considered a gash. Only a few had clotted, and most were still bleeding steadily. Without another word, Simmons moved Grif’s arm over the sink and hastily dug through the first aid kit that they stored in the medicine cabinet. He was no medic, but he knew enough to deal with the situation at hand. He thoroughly cleaned each wound, placing gauze over the smaller cuts, and butterfly bandages over the larger ones. Grif watched him work, thinking he’d never seen anyone do anything with such care.   
After placing the last bandages, he reconsidered his decision not to use stitches on the largest cut, but before he could do anything else, Grif pulled his arm away. Simmons looked up at him with a face saturated with emotion – mostly concern; almost sickeningly so. Grif felt something in his chest twist. He cleared his throat, “Um, thanks, Simmons – sorry, also. For all this, I guess.” Simmons felt like a puzzle piece that had just been shoved right into the middle of the wrong puzzle. Despite being inseparable – against their will or otherwise – for all this time, this was part of Grif that Simmons was unfamiliar with, and just the notion of that bothered him more than he would acknowledge even to himself.   
“Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize,” Simmons managed. Grif shook his head, “No, I should. You shouldn’t have to see this. I just do stupid things all the time; this is just one of those stupid things.”   
Simmons protested, “No, it’s not stupid. It’s serious, Grif. A-are you okay?”   
Grif laughed bitterly, “Well, would you be if you were me?”   
“What?”   
Without exactly meaning to, Grif got louder, “Seriously, I’m a huge, useless pile of shit. We all know that.”   
Simmons got louder, too, “What the hell are you talking about?”   
Grif laughed again, in the same unsettling way, “No, listen! I’m gonna die out here sooner or later if I don’t eat myself to death first. There’s no point, Simmons.”   
“Don’t say stuff like that.”   
Grif was trying his best to blink away any trace of emotional pain. His voice cracked as he tried to speak, “Fuck it. Just. Fuck it.”   
Simmons felt his hands shaking now, “Grif, just shut up! I don’t want to fight with you!”   
As Grif – a bit taken aback since fighting and arguing was the defining factor of his and Simmons’s relationship – replied, “What?”, Sarge shoved his way into the room. His usual gruff, almost preachy voice announced his arrival, “What in the name of -”   
He stopped, though, when he saw Grif’s arm and the blood in the sink.   
He lowered his voice, “Boys, what’s going on in here.”   
Simmons couldn’t say anything. Grif breathed shakily, “God fucking damn it.”   
Simmons found his voice, and muttered, “There was – um – there was an accident.”   
Sarge looked from Simmons to Grif. Grif leaned away from the scene in frustration. Sarge looked back to Simmons, and asked quietly, without any hint of jest or his typical absurdity, “Did he?” He couldn’t finish the question; he wasn’t sure if he had even intended to, but Simmons understood and nodded slowly.   
Sarge turned to Grif, forcing him back into the conversation, “Son, you may not be the best soldier when it comes to taking orders, but don’t think for one second that makes you a bad man.” Grif stared at him, mostly surprised to hear genuine kind words directed at him, especially from Sarge. All he could do was take a deep breath and nod slightly. Sarge gave him a quick pat on the shoulder, “We got enough trouble dealin’ with those Blues; don’t go makin’ their job easier.” With that, he left them alone, even nodding to Simmons on his way out.   
As soon as Sarge was gone, Grif basically collapsed onto the floor, leaning back against the wall. All he could manage to do was whisper, “Fuck.” Simmons felt out of place next to Grif – something that did not happen often.   
Several beats of silence passed before Simmons, nervously picking at his fingernails, spoke, “Grif. I – uh – I’m here for you…okay?” Grif said nothing, only wiped a tear away from his cheek bitterly in response. Simmons nodded, acknowledging that Grif wanted to be alone. He took a breath for what felt like the first time since he walked into the bathroom, and turned towards the door.   
Grif’s voice creaked up from his place on the tile floor, “Simmons.” Before he could even finish calling his name, Simmons was holding Grif tightly in a hug. It was a soft hug, but something about it was very strong.   
They stayed like that for a while, together on the bathroom floor.


End file.
